Fire and Ice
by 2016jacb
Summary: One of the team's targets decides to get even with them. They take his weapon, he'll take Skye. Unfortunately, he thinks torture is fun.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Hello everyone! I am not having a great week (and it's barely begun!), so I've decided to channel some anger at chemistry into something that someone might enjoy. Feel free to leave constructive criticism. :)

* * *

Cold, wet, and tired, five of the Bus's occupants make their way up the cargo-bay ramp, leaving wet footprints and little puddles of water as they walk. Ward and May carry a dark plastic box between them, steps heavy under its weight.

They carry it to the lab and place it on a table, promptly spraying tiny clouds of dust and dirt into the air. Simmons sighs and makes a move towards the mess before thinking better of it. She follows the rest of them up the stairs, eyes watching the trail of damp prints on the dark metal.

They separate, each turning to their bunks, every one of them intent on putting on dry clothes. Within minutes, they've regrouped in the conference room, still disheveled but feeling somewhat better. Coulson waves a hand over the glass screens and they spring to life.

Instead of observing the usual colorful display of information, they see a misshapen static screen; black and white lines jump and dance across each other before their eyes.

Coulson frowns. "Someone get Skye. This isn't right."

Their resident hacker had been left behind. She wasn't needed for the mission. The remote swamps of the Amazon had technology in short supply, and there was no point in having one more person to protect.

Fitz, closest to the door, turns out and walks to her room. He knocks rapidly, rapping against the door with his knuckles.

When she doesn't answer, he turns the knob and looks inside. Her bunk is empty.

At that moment, what had been static snaps into focus. A dark room with a muted color palette appears on the screen. It's dirty and small, the perfect hiding place for their enemies.

Sitting directly in their line of sight is a tall, muscular man with a jagged scar running across his cheek and through his corner of his lips. When he sees them, he flashes a terrifying grin - that of a madman. His eyes dance with fiendish joy as he turns a gleaming silver knife over and over in his hands. The blade catches on a spare ray of sunlight, filtered into the room by chance, and blinds the camera temporarily.

"Hello, SHIELD operatives." His beady little orbs swivel to focus on them. "I believe you have something of mine."

They stare at him in shock.

"How on earth did you manage to link this feed?" Coulson finally said, trying to regain some control of the situation.

That unearthly grin reappears. "Oh, I'm good with my hands."

He pauses to place the knife on a nearby table.

"Now. As I said, you have something of mine. I knew when you entered our base that we stood next to no chance of fending off your team. I decided to stoop to your level."

His grin widens, and the scar stretches. "I took something of yours as well."

He gestures sharply to his left, and suddenly a dim bulb illuminates the dark room. It throws shadows over everything, including the unconscious figure tied to a chair.

The team freezes. They watch as the madman begins to circle like a predatory beast trying to decide the best way to take down its prey. Their hearts leap to their throats when they realized that the figure tied to the chair is one of their own.

Skye.

Her head is tilted back, her dark purple shirt stained darker in places by what they genuinely hope is not blood. She is blissfully unaware of her predicament.

The man, still circling his prize, lunges forward. A sharp blow to the cheek throws her head against her shoulder, startling her out of temporary oblivion.

She coughs and blinks rapidly, adjusting to the dim lighting and confusing surroundings. She looks up at her captor, and across the room to a tiny computer screen. She sees the terrified looks of her team reflected on the glass, and feels her courage attempt to plunge deep, deep into the recesses of her mind.

Ignoring her bravery's desire to flee, she steels her nerves and addresses the man. "Who are you, what do you want, and where am I?"

Her eyes reflect a kind of furious fire that the team had never seen before. Her gaze is boring into him; he has to be uncomfortable under that heat.

Despite the fervor emanating from her every pore, he seems unperturbed. "Well, my dear, that would be giving stuff away, now wouldn't it?" That grin is haunting. The tips of one's mouth should not humanly turn up so much, not by any standard.

She looks again to her team and feels terror stir up in her very bones. "I suppose it would. I'd still like to know." Her tone is flat, emotionless. Determined not to give away the mounting fear.

And suddenly, with a silver whirl of metal and a flash of pearly white teeth, there's a knife at her throat. It's sharp and bright and silver until it turns crimson with her life dripping along its edge. She swallows hard, feels her skin pull against the harsh line that's slowly draining her courage.

All she can see is his teeth. Long and pearly and glistening, they're all she can focus on. She keeps thinking about how strangely _white_ they are until another color sparks her attention – a flicker of orange.

She turns to meet the murky brown depths of his eyes instead of his smile and finds that they're much less hypnotic. There's something animalistic there, something wild and untamed that makes her want to tread softly.

He's holding a lighter to her face, tickling the heat along her chin. He chuckles sadistically, and bends his lips to her ear.

"You have exactly two minutes to decide whether or not you'll cooperate with me. You can have your little moment alone. And after that, if you make the wrong decision, we'll play a little game. I call it…fire and ice."

His little moniker for his favorite type of torture isn't what bothers her. What bothers her is those eyes – they are devoid of any hint of playfulness. He fully intends to get his information, no matter what it takes.

Eyes trained to the ground, she jumps slightly at the slam of the door. She whirls desperately for the little screen, seeking her only hope of survival. Every face is etched with worry and desperation, unsure of what to do. Her mouth pressed in a hard line, she tells them her plan.

"I'm not giving up anything. I'm never betraying you, not again." She meets the gaze of her boss, whose eyes reflect nothing but fear. "I'd love a way out, though."

The fear transforms into determination. "FitzSimmons, get on it. I don't care how primitive their systems are, there must be a way to understand them."

They nod, and begin murmuring to each other, speech blending together without their notice.

Her gaze drifts to Ward, who's standing ram-rod straight against the doorframe, eyes echoing a terrible event of the past. He remembers her recount of Quinn's mansion – her first ever solo mission.

Even being held at gunpoint cannot compare to this.

May's eyes are fixed on the ground, trained on the repetitive pattern adorning the carpet. Skye can't blame her – after all, she has enough demons to banish and ghosts to fend off without adding another.

Simmons looks at her, and her heart stops. Fitz is peeking at her too, and the hopelessness in his eyes matches the insane optimism reflected in his partner's.

Skye traces the line of crimson across her neck with her eyes.

That optimism won't go far in this hellhole.


	2. Chapter 2

He reappears in front of her, seemingly out of nowhere. She knows he entered through that door, but all she can think about is her promise. She won't betray them – never, not again – but she shudders to think of the cost of those words.

"So. Time's up. Have you come to the logical conclusion, or are you dumber than you look?"

In another situation, she would have laughed at the rough, jarring mix of sophisticated vocabulary and basic insults spilling from his lips. But now is not the time.

Eyes focusing on her team, she responds. "I don't think I'm dumb, but I suppose we have to draw our own conclusions, right?" Humor has always come easily to her. It's gotten her out of shady situations; out of the clutches of enraged abusers and malicious children.

But the key is to disappear. Scatter a quip or two, smile nervously, and slink away.

Here, that option is gone.

And her captor isn't amused.

She can hear the metallic flick of the lighter's fuse and her whole body tenses. He steps forward, his eyes glinting maliciously, and holds it up to her gaze.

And before she can think, before she can even breathe, the little tendril of white-hot pain is licking along her chin. She clenches her teeth, torture creeping on her nerves, misery grating at her bones. He presses it closer and it gets _hotter _and she can't process and suddenly

It's gone.

She pulls in a shuddering breath through her teeth. Her skin is writhing, crawling with disgust and pain and heat and she wants to kick him. Hard.

His eyes have never left her face, and they seem to have noticed that her attention is now focused back on him.

He presses his face flush with hers and whispers, "It's called fire and ice because we have to use something to quench your spirit." She can smell alcohol and sweat and her stomach rolls with every passing second he breathes on her.

She pulls together the remaining shards of her courage and looks him dead in the eye. "Why on earth would you use fire to put out a flame? Seems stupid." Her breath is panting now, heart fluttering rapidly, and she can feel her chin blistering.

That damn maniacal grin reappears and mocks her yet again. "It does, doesn't it? But it's worked before."

He flashes his pearly whites and whirls to face her team. She glances half-heartedly at the screen, catching a glimpse of FitzSimmons' horrified expressions and Ward's faltering poker face and Coulson's look of terror.

"Now, what kind of game would it be if we didn't include everyone? That wouldn't be fair. Here's how you all get to play: bring me back my invention, and you can have your pretty little girl back. Until then, you can enjoy the spectacle."

Skye shakes her head rapidly, insisting against the trade. His invention was a torture device; pointing and shooting sent such an extreme message of pain to the brain that even the most experienced agent would give in.

She was ridiculously happy that he no longer had it.

Coulson simply stares at the man, face deadpan. There is no indication that the weapon would be returned at any point at all.

"No? No deal? Well, have fun. Don't change the channel, we have so many activities planned." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

She watches as he deftly slices the plastic surrounding it with one long fingernail. She hears the crinkle as he yanks it off, crumples it up, and throws it to the floor. The little piece of red plastic and glistening metal that had betrayed her flicks to life again.

He places a cigarette between his cracked lips and guides the wisp of orange across the tip. It sparks, giving off a cloud of smoke.

He takes a long drag, and blows the odious smoke in her face. She holds her breath and waits for his next attack.

Grasping the cigarette firmly between two meaty fingers, he places it so that it just barely hovers over the bare skin on her chest. She can feel the heat smoldering, eager to burn _something_ away, and cringes as he drives the molten tip onto her chest. He holds it there, twisting it so that she can feel each individual ember trying to eat her alive.

She can barely stand the pain, but it has barely begun.

* * *

Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, fixed on some fascinating gray spot on the ceiling that holds an abnormal interest for her in comparison to the other patches of concrete. She only faintly feels the constant bite of sizzling skin, having slowly become numb to it altogether.

Coulson and the others move furiously, desperately searching for something, _anything_ that can lead them to her. They watch the madman drive cigarette after cigarette into their friend's body, and observe in horror that she has stopped flinching. She has stopped writhing under the searing nicotine tips; she has simply stopped acknowledging her current predicament.

They all wonder how much of their bubbly hacker will be left when – and if – they can save her.

A startled gasp and a roaring splash cause the scientists to whirl around and focus on the screen. Ward's eyes have never left, but his fists seem to clench impossibly tighter with each of Skye's tortured whimpers.

She's sopping wet. Beads of water drip from her nose onto her saturated dress, mingling with the sweat and tears that had already traced her face. She is shivering violently – the water had been ice cold, and completely unexpected.

She scans the room for her captor, internally preparing for another surprise attack. She finds him in the corner, heaving what seems to be another ice water bath towards her. She braces herself, but the wave never comes.

He sets it down in front of her and whips out a knife. With two deft strokes, he cuts the bonds holding her wrists to the chair. For a split second, she considers bolting – she's untied.

But he holds the knife to her throat again and yanks her to her feet.

"Don't even think it," he mutters. He extracts another length of rope from his pocket and binds her hands behind her. With a quick flash of his hand, the butt of the knife hilt hits her square on the head, forcing her to her knees.

Ward is audibly growling, and Coulson is practically pressed to the screen, seemingly convinced that the closer he gets, the closer he is to saving Skye.

She observes the water swishing from side to side of the bucket, lapping gently at the edges. She glances up at him, her chin an ugly, angry red.

He's above her now, leering down. His hands are pressed together in glee, the corners of his mouth turned up in a devious little closed-mouth smile.

The absence of his flashy teeth concerns her. It's as if he has a secret that he's about to share, and can only restrain himself by not speaking at all.

She doesn't think she'll like his secret.

He rolls the knife in a dizzying circle between his forefinger and thumb. She's watching the silver catch the spare rays of sunlight as it goes back and forth. They're momentary, for sunlight here is rare.

Her torturer finally stops playing with his weapon and decides to use it instead. He runs the tip along her arms and across her neck and above her breasts, tracing crimson lines in each place he chooses. The lines slit open skin already marred by burns and cloaked in layers of grime, sweat, and tears. The impromptu bath has done little to wash away her injuries – or her guilt at being caught like this.

He finally stops, resting the blade on a nearby table. He slowly lowers himself to one knee, positioned perfectly to whisper in her ear – and so he does.

"Now. Have you ever heard of waterboarding?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Hello everyone! I am SO sorry for not updating sooner; it slipped my mind. My updates are probably going to be postponed for a while after this; exam season is but a week away and I have not done enough studying. Enjoy!

* * *

_Waterboarding._

The word seeps into her consciousness slowly, unwillingly. It soaks into the deep dark recesses of her thoughts and inflames the fear she is trying so hard to repress.

Of course she's heard of waterboarding. Who hasn't?

Skye can't even look at the team. She doesn't want to see Simmons crying in Fitz's arms or Ward's poker face finally gone or Coulson's helplessness or May's absolute determination to display no emotion.

So she focuses on the little things instead.

The rough edges of coarsely braided rope cutting into her wrists. The inescapable smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke coming in waves off of her captor. The way her purple top clings wetly to her skin and has turned slightly transparent.

The way the skin just below her chin crawls and oozes; the way it screams in pain and feels eternally warm, as if it will never be cool again.

The way she can feel the cigarette burns sizzling on her flesh. The way she can still feel the fury of each individual cinder licking heat across her skin, tasting the fragile cells and consuming them greedily.

The way she can still feel the silver of the knife slicing through her skin like butter and the way the blood is running in rivulets down her chest and legs and arms.

The way that all of a sudden, the only thing she can see is murky brown water lapping at the sides of a rusty white tub, trying to escape almost as hard as her. Some of the drops push hard enough and leap over the edge of the tub, teasing her with their sudden freedom.

She feels lips graze her ear and shudders involuntarily. "Take a deep breath," he says mockingly, laughing quietly at her predicament.

She sends a silent prayer to whatever deity might possibly be listening, and inhales just as she's introduced first hand to the ravenous liquid.

* * *

At first, it's not so bad.

She can open her eyes and look around. Not that there's anything to see.

She's always been good at holding her breath, so this seems like child's play. Her brain is calm, quiet; the opposite of the last few hours. In some sick, twisted way, she feels at peace for the first time since these thugs absconded with her.

But her lungs begin to prick with discomfort and she doesn't like it. She pushes against his hand, but it's hard and firm and stiff and she can't make it move.

She pushes _harder_ but he's not budging and now she's scared. She tries again and gets pushed deeper. She's panicking now.

Now her lungs are screaming and she can't inhale and she wants _air_ and she can't think and his hands are too strong and everything's going dark around the edges

And suddenly, his hand is gone.

She bursts out of the tub, spluttering and coughing and _gasping_ for air, desperately sucking everything she can into her tortured lungs. She can feel the water from the ends of her hair dripping onto her shirt and tracing little trails down her back. Funny, considering everything is wet now.

She risks a glance at her team. Everyone looks horrified, even May. She thinks Simmons might collapse if they're not careful.

She searches for a reassuring smile, a nod, a quirked eyebrow to give them – something, anything to reassure them that she can get through this. But to her surprise, there's nothing to find.

It's probably because she can no longer see a way out of this.

Her split second's respite from the hungry brown depths ends quickly, and before she can process, she's being hauled to the tub again.

She takes a deep breath before taking the plunge again. The pull on her lungs becomes much quicker now, as if her captor had extracted a portion of her resistance. She's pushing against his hand even stronger and it's not okay and suddenly her brain overrides her; she needs air, and forces her to inhale the very thing choking her. It's not air and she can't think and

She's lying on the cold concrete ground, twitching. Mouthfuls of water pour from her mouth, no more eager to take up residence in her lungs than she was eager to have them. Her lungs retch and retch until she's just lying there, eyes staring at nothing, lying in a pool of vomited water.

Her captor doesn't care much; he seems rather bored. Lighting another cigarette, he turns to face her team. "So. Care to reconsider your original stance on our bargain?" He takes a long drag, face so utterly nonchalant that it would be near impossible to tell that he was draining a girl's life but moments before.

Skye can't even lift her head to see the screen. Their voices are indistinct, muted, almost as though they were underwater. She hopes dearly that this was a product of her captor's security, and that her stint with torture hasn't caused her hearing loss.

* * *

The team can't take their eyes off her. She's curled up in a ball, shivering fiercely, eyes squeezed tight. They watch her vomit water, desperately trying to expel it. The terror and pain etched on her face scare them; not a single one has ever seen Skye like this before.

Coulson looks at FitzSimmons in desperation and they nod. His relief soars; they've found her. He shoots a cautious look to May and Ward, who nod as well.

He raises his gaze to meet their enemy's. The torturer is sitting there, eyebrows slightly raised in question, using the knife to clean under his fingernails.

He steps forward and takes a shaky breath. "We've…we still can't return your item to you." His voice is wavering, unsure; he truly sounds like he wants to give another answer.

A flash of pearly white teeth and the torturer is back at Skye's side. "I do hope you know what this means." His fingers catch the edge of her shirt and pull her to her knees. She gives a slight whimper, eyes snapped open and searching.

Ward is really scared now. She's barely made one noise of complaint or pain this entire time, but it seems that she can't restrain them, and he's terrified. Her resistance is crumbling.

Coulson nods at him again and jerks his head to the side. Ward feels his hope balloon in his chest; they've arrived at the location. May had set the coordinates discreetly, taking the plane and flying it to help Skye without her captor's notice.

He takes one last long look at his battered junior agent, blood and water and sweat and grime dripping off her with waves of fear so strong he can feel them, and tears down the stairs. He slams his hand on the cargo-hold release button, May at his side.

They're going in.

* * *

Skye can faintly feel the man's fingers yanking her up. The rough concrete floor cuts into her knees, adding more crimson lines to her extensive inventory.

She's really cold, and she can feel herself trembling. She really doesn't want to go back into the water. It's cold there too.

But Coulson had refused, voice shaking, and so she feels the icy water lap at her soul again.

She struggles immediately, fighting the greasy hands that seem too damn _strong_ to be human, and is rewarded by a sharp jab between her shoulder blades. She gasps at the sudden pain, and is flooded by an inhale of murk that she can't extract oxygen from.

She's half unconscious, inadvertently trying to breathe in the water, when she's thrust from the tub, spluttering and heaving. He throws her to the ground hard, slamming her head as she gasps and retches.

The water streaming from her lips seems endless; there's more coming out of her than she thought the tub could hold. She has a river flowing from her mouth, and when it slows to a trickle, all she can taste is the grime coating her tongue and the salty iron tang of blood.

* * *

He slips in one entrance, May the other. With swift, synchronized movements, they snap femurs and wrists and necks. They disarm and shoot, mercy the furthest thing from their minds.

One guard in particular rushes them, and May catches him by the throat while Ward slams the gun out of his hand.

"Where is she?" May growls. The sound is low and guttural, animalistic, and if Ward were the one in her stranglehold, he'd be afraid not to answer.

The captive seems to be following Ward's train of thought, and gestures animatedly to the left. His eyes are bulging, lips rapidly turning purple, so Ward puts him out of his misery.

He slams the butt of his gun into their enemy's head and turns to follow May, sprinting down the wide stone passageway.

They turn aside guards, punching and kicking and slamming doors open without even registering the threat. Their feet carry them to the end of the hallway, where they can hear a man's quiet chuckle and feeble splashing.

Ward puts his finger on the trigger and slams into the room.

* * *

She's drowning again, sinking in the liquid she can't hope to turn from oxygen to carbon dioxide. She's barely struggling under his hands, full aware that he will take her out when he wants to and not a moment before. She inhales the molten lava that burns her throat and lungs and threatens to set her mind on fire.

She hears a muffled crack and suddenly his hand is gone. She collapses to the ground, water spewing from her mouth and nose without her express permission, resolutely escaping from every possible orifice.

She's still vomiting water when she feels, for the first time in what seems like days, something warm. She hates the feel of that brute's hand on her back; it will be there for the rest of her days, imprinted on her mind and skin forever, but this hand is kind and small and feminine and is supporting her.

She feels the matching hand on her shoulder, positioning her perfectly so that the water keeps flowing out. Her vision is blurred by the tears that seem to have taken up permanent residence in her eyes, but she sees two human shapes, both still and silent.

When the water finally stops, and she drags in a gasping, stinging breath, coughing on the air, she blinks rapidly to dislodge the tears and sees Ward and May. The looks on their faces are telling; she didn't think she was in good shape to begin with, but the pain in their eyes reflect more than she's willing to accept.

Lungs heaving, desperate to compensate, she leans against Ward's firm chest, May's hand still on her back. Skye looks into May's eyes and nods slightly.

_Thank you._

And then the world is spinning and bright and too colorful and her head _hurts_

And everything goes dark.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Enjoy!

* * *

The door splinters into slivers of dark-stained wood as Ward's shoulder breaches the frame. They stumble through the open doorway and see the sadistic creature holding Skye down. Her body is shaking, but not resisting.

She's stopped fighting.

Ward takes aim without a second thought and pulls the trigger. A bullet bursts from the gun and lodges in the man's temple. His body slumps to the ground and Skye bursts from the water.

They rush to her side, desperate to help. She's writhing, water spilling from every orifice, spluttering and choking on the liquid. Ward pushes aside the corpse as May brings her to a sitting position, one hand on her shoulder and one on her back. Skye's blinking rapidly, tears joining the water pouring from her mouth. Her head bobs up and down, trying to inhale as a cascade of fluid torture spills from her lips.

The heaving finally ceases, and she coughs violently. They both wince when they hear her draw in a breath. The sound is sharp and painful, seemingly grating against her lungs.

Skye leans into Ward, who's kneeling at her side now. He wants nothing more than to put his arms around her, and so he does. She looks up, makes eye contact with May, nods, and goes limp.

Ward panics. "Skye?" He shakes her gently, but she's absolutely dead to the world. May puts a hand on Ward's shoulder, forcing him to look up at her.

"Let's go," she says softly. Ward nods dumbly, scooping Skye's sodden figure into his arms. _Raising her is like carrying a feather,_ he thinks.

They walk as fast as they can out of the facility. May's punching the occasional forgotten guard, shoving through doors with a kick of her steel-tipped boots. He can't focus on anything but the fact that Skye's lips are purple and she hasn't stopped shivering and she's so drenched that he can feel the moisture from her shirt soaking into his.

They push past door after door after door until _finally_ he feels fresh air on his face. Exotic Amazonian trees and flowers blur past him as he jogs, and he can't help but think Skye would have liked to see them. She'd complained when she was told that everyone was needed for the mission except her.

They finally reach the Bus. The hulking steel beast lowers its mouth to let May and Ward jog on, and then snaps shut. Ward can hear nothing but his feet pounding on the metal, bringing Skye closer to the care she needs. She's trembling so violently that his arms are struggling to contain her.

FitzSimmons already have the lab prepped, and both are sitting on stools, eyebrows furrowed in concern. When they see the trio sprinting up the cargo-hold ramp, they spring up and dive into action.

"Put her on the table," Simmons directs Ward. He lays her down gently, cradling her head before sweeping her sopping wet hair out from under it. He looks down at her in concern, and before he knows what's happening, Fitz has a hand on his chest and his feet are moving backwards, putting him outside the lab.

"But-wait-I-"Agent Ward, we need to examine her. You're only in the way," Fitz says firmly but not unkindly. Ward nods mutely, and watches the sliding glass doors shut in his face.

He stands close enough that his breath fogs up the glass as he exhales, straining to keep his eyes on Skye. He averts his eyes only when Simmons starts pulling off clothing and his rookie's in nothing but a light purple bra. Fitz stands off to the side out of respect, and only turns around once Simmons has yanked a hospital gown over their friend's head.

They pile blankets on top of her, every inch hidden beneath warm fabric except her arms and face. There's an IV in her wrist, feeding her some anti-bacterial cocktail and the fluids she needs, and Simmons is plunging a needle into her elbow, drawing out blood that he thinks he's seen too much of.

They bandage the cuts on her throat and arms, occasionally searching for needle and thread to bind the deeper ones. The boys look away again when Simmons pulls down the hospital gown and tends to Skye's chest; the needle and thread are needed for all of those.

They put salve on her burns, making her chin glisten with the grease of the ointment. Gauze covers too much of her now; little swathes of white filmy fabric dot her arms and legs and chest and face.

Her lips have finally faded back to a pale red, she's no longer shivering, and her breathing is seemingly calm and regular. But Simmons puts a stethoscope to Skye's lungs and murmurs in concern. She moves the cold metal disc around, trying to sense more, and shakes her head in dismay.

She and Fitz step out of the lab, faces drawn and tired. Ward suddenly sees that everyone's here; May must have fetched Coulson when his eyes were riveted on his rookie.

FitzSimmons look at each other, and Leo nods encouragingly. Jemma sighs, takes a deep breath, and gives them the verdict.

"She's severely burned in many places; it'll be hard for her to sleep on any surface for a good deal of time. She has over 30 stitches in all, and she was in the beginning stages of hypothermia when we found her. The most concerning thing about this is, um," Jemma hesitated. "Well, she still has water in her lungs. She's in the beginning stages of drowning."

The team just stands there, absorbing everything. They watched their friend get tortured and couldn't do anything about it. Ward feels like he's failed her; how on earth could he have let this happen?

In his heart of hearts, he knows he did nothing wrong. He knows that their enemies boarded the Bus unexpectedly, searching for anything to hold ransom, and Skye just happened to fit the bill. But he still feels like he should have protected her.

Simmons takes a shaky breath and finishes her diagnosis. "We're monitoring her heart activity, because cardiac arrhythmia is a common result of drowning, so someone needs to stay with her at all times."

Before she can finish, everyone else volunteers. Every voice was quiet, hurt, protective. Simmons isn't surprised.

"I figured that would be the case." She turns on her heel and disappears into the back room, her teammates following tentatively. She produces five foldout chairs and silently doles them out.

The metal hinges squeak as they're opened, and each person winces slightly at the grating noise against their ears. They all settle in, getting as comfortable as possible in the awkward positions warranted by the stiff chairs.

Before long, Fitz is snoring softly, arms crossed across his chest. Coulson's chin has met his chest, eyes heavy from the day's events, and Simmons has slipped onto Fitz's shoulder, breathing deeply.

Ward remains awake, eyes fixed on the heart monitor. He's a little surprised when May leaves, but he hears the quiet purr of the engines soon after and realizes they'd never left the ground. Skye had been first priority.

Ten minutes later, May pads down the stairs silently and takes up her former position.

They watch for hours with no change. Skye's still blissfully asleep, breathing soft and easy. But soon after May leaves to pilot the plane with Coulson in tow, presumably to discuss private matters, Ward sees Skye stir.

He glances at the scientists, who are both fast asleep, and stands up. He walks over to Skye's bedside.

She stretches a little and yawns, only to recoil in shock. Her eyes fly open as her hands reach for her throat, gasping slightly from the extreme pain coursing through it.

Ward immediately puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her down. Her eyes snap to meet his, and he can hear the increased, panicked pace of her breathing.

"Hey, Skye. It's okay. We got you out, you're on the Bus, and FitzSimmons fixed you up. Everything's fine," he soothed.

She exhales carefully, forcefully, and looks down at her arms. "Ah, jeez. I look like I have the chicken pox," she rasps. She winces as every word that slips past her lips feels like sandpaper.

He looks at her arms, which are covered in gauze circles, and grins sheepishly. "Ehh. It's not that bad. How's your breathing?"

"It's been better." She looks back up at him and sighs. "Did you kill him?"

The question takes him aback. "What?"

"The asshole who was drowning me, moron. Is he dead?"

Ward nods slowly. "Yeah, I killed him."

She lays back on the pillows, eyes closed. "Good. I've never wanted someone dead before, but I guess there's a first time for everything," she murmurs. Her wet hair fanned across her pillow, she looks like an angel to Ward. A pale, dirty, injured angel, but beautiful nonetheless.

He hesitates, but steels his nerves and pushes a spare curl of hair back from her forehead. He brings his lips to her pale skin, and just barely brushes them against it.

Her faint smile bolsters his hopes and puts his fears to rest.

She's tough. She'll survive this.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Final chapter, everyone. Sorry for the delay, but exams are finally over! Hope you enjoyed!

* * *

She feels oddly removed from all of this, somehow.

She watches FitzSimmons fuss over her wounds and monitor each and every little thing her body does without absorbing it. They won't let her leave, because they're worried about her heart, so she smiles wanly and doesn't attempt to leave the bed.

She can feel the cold metal of Simmons' stethoscope and the burning heat of Ward's worried gaze, but behind a blurry screen. This is just her way of compartmentalizing, she thinks. She'll be okay with a little time. She just needs to learn to accept what's happened.

Simmons rubs something sticky on her chin, effectively breaking her reverie. She squirms uncomfortably but the ointment is cool and her burn is warm, so she allows it. It still looks like she has the chicken pox, she thinks, taking in the filmy swathes of gauze dotting her arms.

Fitz comes up to her and speaks softly. "Hey, we need you to take a few steps, just to get you back in motion, okay?" She nods and swings her feet off the bed.

That was a bad idea, apparently, because sudden movements make her head swim. She puts a hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath to dispel the dizziness. Fitz, still treading cautiously, offers her a hand, which she gladly takes.

She eases off the bed on unsteady legs, Grant's eyes still following her every move, when Fitz makes a mistake.

He is only trying to steady her, to prevent what little progress she has made from slipping away, when he puts a hand on her back.

It's a warm weight right between her shoulder blades.

A snap audible only to her resonates in her ears and she collapses, curled up in the smallest ball she can become.

She's choking on the air, because it's not air anymore. It's that same filthy water that those terrible strong hands shoved her into again and again and again, and her lungs are filling up fast.

Tears streak down her face as tortured sobs escape her throat and she struggles to separate reality from memory. It's a hopeless task, because everything is dark and muted, and the oxygen around her isn't cooperating and _his hands_ are still there. They're still pressing into her spine and she can't think with their warm presence needling her conscious.

She dimly hears chattering voices around her, tinged with concern and panic, and she desperately wants to comfort them, but how can she when she's drowning? The hand is still on her back and she can't breathe with it there.

She hears a sharp startled gasp and suddenly the fingernails carving into her spine are gone and she can breathe. She coughs violently, choking on the same substance that was sustaining her moments before, and buries her face further into her knees.

She can feel someone's warm embrace around her, almost identical to the way Grant Ward had held her when he finally rescued her. She relaxes, knowing that it's over, it's all over, he's here, and her consciousness flits away.

* * *

Ward looks at the trembling girl in his arms and sees that she's passed out. He lifts her carefully back onto the hospital bed and turns to Simmons in concern.

"What was that?" he demands. "What triggered her?"

Fitz looks down at his feet and sighs, hands covering his face. "I screwed up."

Simmons smacks his shoulder and protests. "You didn't know. When someone goes through something like that, triggers are very individual. If anything, it's a good thing that this happened so early, so we can avoid it in the future!"

Ward looks back to the scene and recalls Simmons' startled gasp and the resounding slap her hand had made when it smacked Fitz's away from Skye. He can understand why that would trigger her; the man had been consistent, a true professional. He had placed his hands just between her shoulders every time.

Fitz hadn't meant to, but his hands had forced Skye to relive the nightmare all at once.

"Hmmm…we also know what calms her down, too," Simmons says pensively. "She relaxed as soon as you hugged her. Did you do that when you rescued her?"

He nods dumbly. Apparently his embrace is a trigger too, but one that can help.

He takes up his former seat and watches over her from a distance. He wishes that she looked peaceful, but the bandages and bruises littering her body don't help contribute to that kind of picture.

He's just beginning to nod off when Simmons taps him gently.

"Hey. Would you mind taking her back up to her bunk? Her heart's okay, but I don't want her to panic when she wakes up. It'll be better if she's somewhere familiar."

He nods again, for what feels like the tenth time that day, and trots to her bedside. Gently sliding his arms under her, he lifts her and begins to walk. Yet again he's struck by how light she seems – there's almost no effort involved.

He makes his way up the spiraling stairs, boots treading as quietly as possible. Within a minute he's carefully maneuvered her into her bed, pulled a blanket over her, and closed her door almost all the way. He walks to his bunk, grabs his current book, and sits down. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, but he'll attribute that to his overactive swirling thoughts.

He's only a few chapters in when he hears a muffled scream. The book falls from his hands as he runs to help the younger agent he's been charged with. Strangely enough, it no longer feels like an obnoxious obligation to help her.

Her screams have increased in volume by the time he barrels through her door. Her eyes are squeezed impossibly tight, and there's tension lining every muscle. Tears streak down her cheeks as she screams again. This time, though, it's barely audible and is followed by a broken plea. "No…stop…please…"

He's frozen, but her whimpered protests jolt him into action. "Skye! You're okay! You're on the Bus. You're safe." He lifts her off the bed and embraces her with all the enthusiasm he can muster.

She's trembling, gasping for air yet again, but when her eyes meet his, still wet from tears, her expression is one of absolute trust. "Thank you."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he nods. Again.

Skye's still shaking and cold to the touch, so when he tries to lay her back down, she glues herself to his side. "You're warm," she murmurs, already half lost to the world of sleep.

He adjusts her carefully and lies down on her mattress with her still in his arms. She snuggles closer, nose pressed into his chest, and he feels a sudden surge of affection for the woman in his arms.

Her bed is warm and soft, she's cuddled up to him, and he's about to pass out from sheer exhaustion. He can't resist, and he falls asleep without taking the time to acknowledge what he'd just realized.

* * *

When he wakes, she's still there, long hair half covering his face and arms and legs attached to him in a death grip. She's like an octopus, he thinks amusedly, and then realizes that he never would have had such an unusual thought run through his head without meeting said octopus wrapped around him.

She's been such a good influence, he realizes. Before her, he couldn't have taken the words "loosen up" seriously, because he had no definition for them. Skye was the definition of chaos – a hacker set on a path leading as far as possible from SHIELD's definition of moral, determined to spread information and secrets.

But she had changed him – he was completely unable to work on a team before her, clumsy and useless when surrounded by other agents. Skye had worked her way into his routine, giving him a (usually) thankless task as her SO, forcing him to see things her way more often than not. She'd questioned his authority and annoyed him and molded him until working on a team was no longer a task - it was easy. He'd worked his magic on her too – she still didn't like secrets, but she'd learned to adapt to SHIELD protocol and ideals.

He looks back at her faintly smiling face, and realizes that he's falling in love with his rookie agent. He's not there yet, but he has a feeling that this will go somewhere. Failed relationships and meaningless sex aside, he's never really felt this way about anyone.

Skye's different, he thinks. And he'll help her get through this, no matter what it takes. He brushes her hair out of her face and freezes when she stirs. Her eyes blink open, and light brown meet dark.

"Thanks for being there last night," she murmurs, faintly embarrassed. He moves to get up, so he can give her some privacy, and walks to the door.

Before he can leave, she grabs the hem of his shirt and he stops. When he turns around, she plants a soft kiss on his cheek and pushes him out the door.

He stares blankly at the SHIELD stamped piece of metal in front of him and slowly reaches a hand up to touch the place where she kissed him.

It's warm.

He smiles.


End file.
